A Maidens Grave

lights and should be at the incident site by ten-thirty, ten-forty. The voice was young and matter-of-fact and extremely calm, though she was probably doing a hundred miles an hour.
    “Look forward to it,” Potter said, a little gruffly, and hung up.
    “Good luck,” Marks said. He hesitated, as if thinking of something else he might say. He settled for “God save those girls” and left the van.
    “DEA’s on the way,” Tobe announced. “They’ve got the cash. Coming in by confiscated turbo helicopter. They get the best toys, those pricks.”
    “Hey,” Budd said, “they’re bringing a hundred thousand, right?”
    Potter nodded.
    “Where’re we gonna keep the fifty that we don’t give him? That’s a lot of cash to store.”
    Potter held his finger to his lips. “We’ll split it, Charlie, you and me.”
    Budd blinked in shock.
    At last Potter winked.
    The captain laughed hard, as did Angie and Frances.
    Tobe and LeBow were more restrained. Those who knew Arthur Potter understood that he rarely made jokes. He tended to do so only when he was at his most nervous.

10:01 P.M.
    The killing room had become cold as a freezer.
    Beverly and Emily huddled against Melanie as they all watched Mrs. Harstrawn lying ten feet away: eyes open, breathing, but otherwise dead as Bear, who still blocked the entrance to the room and whose body was sendingthree long fingers of black blood reaching slowly toward them.
    Beverly, air rasping into her lungs, as if she’d never breathe again, could not take her eyes off the streams.
    Something was going on in the other room. Melanie couldn’t see clearly but it seemed that Brutus and Stoat were packing up—guns and bullets and the tiny TV set. They were walking through the large room, looking around. Why? It was as if they felt sentimental about the place.
    Maybe they were going to give up . . . .
    Then she thought, No way. They’re going to get into that helicopter, drag us along with them, and escape. We’ll live this same nightmare over and over and over again. Fly to someplace else. There’ll be other hostages, other deaths. More dark rooms.
    Melanie found her hand once more at her hair, uneasily entwining a finger in the strands, which were now damp and filthy. No “shine” now. No light. No hope. She lowered her hand.
    Brutus strode into the room and gazed at Mrs. Harstrawn, looking down at her creased brow. He had that slight smile on his face, the smile Melanie had come to recognize and to hate. He pulled Beverly after him.
    “She’s going home. Going home.” Brutus pushed her out of the door of the killing room. He turned back, pulled a knife from his pocket, opened it, and cut the wire that had run to the canister of gasoline. He tied Melanie’s hands behind her back and then her feet. Emily’s too.
    Brutus laughed. “Tying your hands up—that’s like gagging you too. How ’bout that?”
    Then he was gone, leaving the three remaining hostages.
    All right, she thought. The twins had done it; they would too. They’d get out by following the scent of the river. Melanie turned around, her back toward Emily’s, offered her bound hands. The little girl understood and struggled with the knots. But it was useless; Emily admired long fingernails but had none of her own.
    Try harder, come on!
    Suddenly Melanie shivered as Emily’s fingers dug deep into her wrists. She cringed as the little girl’s handstugged once desperately at her fingers then suddenly disappeared. Someone had the girl, was dragging her away!
    What’s going on?
    Frowning, Melanie twisted around.
    Bear!
    His face bubbling with blood and twisting in rage, he pulled Emily to the wall. He shoved her against the tile. She fell, stunned. Melanie opened her mouth to scream but Bear lunged forward, stuffing a filthy rag into her mouth and clamping his bloody hand on her shoulder.
    Melanie fell backward. Bear’s huge face dropped down onto her breast and kissed her, wet and bloody. She felt the moisture through her blouse. His blurry eyes looked over her body as she tried to spit the rag from her mouth. He pulled a knife from his pocket. He opened it with a bloody hand and his teeth.
    She tried to squirm away but he continued to clutch her breast. He rose up on one elbow and rolled off her. She kicked hard but her bound feet rose only an inch or two. A stream of blood poured from his slacks, where it had been pooling for the past hour, and covered her legs with the cold, thick